


Reconciliation

by recrudescence



Category: House
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-09
Updated: 2010-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House goes home. Wilson wants to childproof his apartment. Other stuff happens instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reconciliation

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after 97 Seconds. I am so timely.

The two of you have hardly tottered through the front door when Wilson starts in on you. "I'm going to have to childproof your apartment. Pad sharp edges, plug up open electrical sockets..."

Your hand hurts like a son of a bitch and so does your leg. You'd think they'd cancel each other out. But you can only get so much across without words as you drag yourself into the living room. Maybe spurning the wheelchair wasn't such a stellar move.

"Who did you end up keeping?" he's asking, like this is just another day. Doesn't matter, and it _isn't_.

"Ditched the blonde. Not cute enough. Why do you care?"

He's frowning at you, not that you have to look to know it. "You can be a tormented genius all you like, but being a genius doesn't mean you have to be tormented."

"No more fortune cookies for you," you mutter.

"I can't believe you fired the one who saved your life. You knew she would do anything for the job. Cuddy shouldn't let you make decisions when you're drugged into next week."

That makes you snort. Wilson has the grace to look a little abashed.

"I felt like it."

"Which is the same reason you gave for _electrocuting_ yourself," he babbles on, gesturing with a water glass while he's standing by the refrigerator. Probably on the fast track to making sure you stay hydrated. For some reason, that just pisses you off even more. It's hard enough to think straight without Wilson giving what's left of your brain a workout.

"Jesus, shut up," you mutter, grimacing. "Is it really that hard to believe?" You make a show of gathering some bread and peanut butter, then yanking a table knife out of the silverware drawer. It's smudged with something that might be jam. Apparently there's a drawback to not doing the dishes after all.

Wilson...he freezes, just stands there rigidly. He looks like he's going to cry or slap you, but he does neither, and that's worse. He just nods a little and ambles away. You throw the knife in the sink and don't follow him.

It takes far too long to navigate the hall to the bathroom, let alone decipher the mechanics of inserting a toothbrush into your mouth. It's too much to hope that he'll be gone when you finish. Not leaving, since that just doesn't come naturally to Wilson, but he'll hover and flutter around like a broken satellite and be solicitous and look hurt until you yell for him to go away so he can stop wasting his time trying to make you feel bad.

When you come out of the bathroom, he's leaning against the wall and clearly has no intentions of either proving you right or childproofing anything anymore because there's broken glass all over the kitchen floor and you think, holy shit, he's actually done it. Flipped his lid, blown a fuse, bumped his pumpkin, lost his marbles. Feels like you're standing on a spill of them: can't stay balanced, swaying on your feet.

Arms are locking around you from behind and you struggle as much as you can, trying to shrug them away. "Stop it," he hisses irritably.

He's shoving you up against the wall before you can snap something about taking enough abuse for one day. Maybe he'll punch you now, let you go, collapse right on the remains of your glasses--did he tip a shelf over? Maybe you didn't hear it over the running water.

He'll leave you knocked out cold on your living room floor in a pool of vomit and poetic justice that's right up his twisted little alley and maybe dump all your chocolate milk down the sink or shave your head or something--there's no telling with psychotic breaks--and instead he kisses you.

Just a little, just on the cheek, and you remember that asshole of a cop coming for you after he sold you out and how Chase's pretentious accent had shattered in his throat and all you'd felt was adrenaline and the burn in your fist and you'd kept walkingwalkingwalking like you could leave the pain behind by forcing it on somebody else. Part of you wants to push this off, walk away all over again, though you're dead on your feet and Wilson's holding you in place and you hate him for it almost as much as you crave it. The cane feels too heavy in your fingers and ends up hooked over the doorknob. You can't walk anywhere right now.

"You need to stop doing this to yourself. _I_ need you to stop doing this to yourself."

"Don't wanna talk," you mumble.

"I know," he says, hands on your face.

He keeps quiet for a little when, then. Guides you down the hallways, ushers your shirt off, tips you into bed. You'd think you'd be too pumped full of pills to react, but when he starts on your pants, eyes raw, you raise an eyebrow at him.

"Brilliant," he's muttering. "You get rid of a hand, you get an excuse to be even lazier." And he slips them off of you without another word. "I draw the line at sponge-baths, by the way."

"Are we having sex?" you manage to ask, with an appalling lack of your usual finesse.

"Right," he says, leveling you with that look. "You stick knives in wall sockets. I don't what to think about what you stick other things in."

You remember when his face was sharper, smile wide, messy hair perfectly combed. Back when the creases in his slacks looked like they could draw blood. How he'd started showing up to work in mismatched socks and Julie wasn't talking to him, but that just meant there was less competition when you needed a sounding board or a free meal, so no big deal there. You don't remember when he started looking so lost, muted and frayed around the edges like a shirt that's been worn too often or a painting left out in the rain. Maybe you should have paid more attention. Maybe he would only have grown bored with you if you had.

You're so damn tired, can't tell if your hand hurts more than your leg or if they're throbbing and meeting in the middle, somewhere behind your sternum, because something in that region hurts now. Fantastic. "No, I don't want to talk about it," you repeat, even though Wilson hasn't said a word.

"You should anyway," he murmurs, and leans in, hair tickling your nose, elbow jostling your leg.

It makes you flinch. Your nose itches, your eyes fly open, and Wilson's face swims in front of your vision. You can't open your mouth. It hurts, and he's still there. Ordering up more pain meds and serving them with lectures on the side.

_You're an idiot_, he'd said. The room is thrum-juddering like a plucked guitar string. You'd meant to argue with him on that point, would _still_ argue with him if you could, but you'll have to save that for later.

Familiar as coming home.  



End file.
